


Wandering

by dawnsparkler



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drarry, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Late night talks, M/M, Oneshot, wandering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27745228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnsparkler/pseuds/dawnsparkler
Summary: Harry notices Draco. Late night talks and wandering.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 75





	Wandering

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of J. K. Rowling's characters. Also I do not support Rowling, and I do not support her views/opinions.

The moon was round, hanging low in the dark sky. The soft glow cast light on the rough stone floor where Harry was sitting, in front of the window that gazed out upon the Black Lake. 

Harry doesn’t know the time, but if he had to guess he’d probably been there for a few hours. He always made a visible effort to go to sleep, close his eyes and lay quietly in his bed, at least until the breathing of his dormmates slowed into unconsciousness. That way, no one got on him for not sleeping. 

Hermione had done that a lot in the past few weeks. He knew Ron and Hermione were concerned for him. And they were right-he wasn’t alright. But his sleep schedule, was, he thought, something not worth being concerned about. 

Besides, the nightmares had plagued him all summer, and he’d began taking Dreamless Sleep every single night. It did work, but he always woke more tired that before, the dark shadows under his eyes more pronounced. So he’d stopped bothering with it. Even if he didn’t visually see the nightmares, the memories, they were always there. At the edge of his thoughts.

So Harry has taken to watching the world outside through the window, which felt like a view to a totally different world. A place that had never known conflict, a place of peace. Serenity. Safety. Because while the grounds of the castle certainly withheld that appearance, Harry knew otherwise. 

He wasn’t the only one who had nightmares, wasn’t the only one who wandered the castle at night or stayed awake. Who looked in the mirror and saw a ghost looking back at them. Occasionally he’d hear Neville, or Ron, or Dean jerk awake at night, their breathing fast and shallow before gradually returning to normal. But he never talks about it with them, and they don’t say anything when they saw his bed empty at night or his vigil before the window.

Coming back for eighth year at Hogwarts had not been an easy decision for him. At first he’d wanted to refuse, thinking of the wide eyes following him, the whispers. Not to mention the memories that lurked around every shadowy corner of the repaired castle. He did love Hogwarts, but now that feeling was tinged with something else. Fear. Anger. Grief. 

But Hermione and Ron had been going, and over the course of the summer they’d convinced him to come back. And Harry had liked the idea of being in the familiar places- the common room, the dorms, having his last memories at Hogwarts being mundane, normal things, not the war. Also not being alone so much. Now he shares a dorm with the eighth year Hufflepuff and Gryffindor boys. Ron, Neville, Seamus, Dean. Ernie, Micheal, Justin. The rest hadn’t come back for an eighth year. Or couldn’t. For many reasons. One of them being mortality.

Harry adjusts his glasses, which had been slipping down the bridge of his nose. Gazing up at the moon once again, his eyes skimming over the faint, discolored craters and spots that peppered it. It reminds him of Remus. 

Harry sighs, forcefully dragging his thoughts away from thoughts of the dead. He’s grieved over the summer, and the fall and winter months. Now it was February, and he was still grieving. Just more quietly. He’s grown tired too many times of people telling him to sleep, to take this or that potion, to go rest. Treating him as something fragile. It irks him. 

Harry stands and walks out of the dorm, closing the door behind him silently. His footsteps echo slightly as he made his way down the stairs and out into the halls of the school. It was quiet. The portraits that lined the walls had settled down for the night, a few of them snoring or snuffling in their slumber. Harry didn’t bother with a _Lumos_ to light his way, as his eyes have adjusted to the dark; and the moonlight still flows in from tall windowpanes at intervals along the corridor. 

Harry walks aimlessly around the castle, poking his head into forgotten classrooms or dusty hallways, gradually making his way to one of his favorite spots. It was quiet, secluded, and he’d come to think of it as his spot. He went there to think, and just to be somewhere by himself. Whenever he travels the corridors at night it always reminds him of being eleven years old again, wandering around under his father’s Invisibility Cloak. How he misses being so young, looking forward to the years ahead of him.

This school year had been unlike any other, with good reason. There was an elegant stone memorial that adorned the courtyard now, across from the fountain. On it, the names of the fallen were etched forever in the rock. Not just those of the second war, but of everyone who’d perished because of Voldemort since the beginning. Every time he passed by, Harry let his hand drift out and run over the letters that made his parent’s names, then the others. _James Potter. Lily Potter. Sirius Black. Remus Lupin._

But he had, when he could, enjoyed his time with his friends. Slowly trying to readjust to some semblance of normalcy. Going through the motions of schoolwork, classes. Spending hours with Ron, Hermione. Every now and then he’d do something with Luna, as he appreciated the easy, comfortable silence that she had. Not needing to talk so much like everyone else. 

He and Ginny, they’d tried to get back together. But both of them had drifted apart. Now they were just friends, and Ginny was dating Luna. He was happy for them. 

Harry strolls through the third-floor hallway, his eyes catching on the shadowy figures of armor lining the walls. He remembers seeing them fight alongside the students and professors. Hears again the clang of metal as giants swept them aside with their clubs, off the bridge. Into the abyss. 

Harry sighs softly and trails his fingers along the cool stone wall, recentering himself. Shaking away those past memories. Focusing on the sensations here and now. The slightly stale air, as the windows didn’t appear in these corridors. The sounds of his own feet as he walked. The rough, cool stone under his hands. 

He turns into one of the rooms, his hand still on the wall. It was his favorite spot to hide away, one of many unused rooms forgotten in the bowels of the castle. It was the room where the Mirror of Erised had resided for a brief while in his first year, and Harry had stumbled across it. It was no different than the many other classrooms, but he came here anyway.

Trouble is, there was already someone there. 

The first impression he got was white-blond hair, glowing softly in the moonlight streaming in from a window. He was sitting with his back to Harry, seemingly looking at the wall, his hands braced on either side of the desk. Then Harry’s foot scuffs against the stone, and Draco Malfoy turned around.

His skin was pale, and his grey eyes were wide in surprise, though they quickly changed and became shadowed and guarded. His cheeks were hollow. 

Harry blinks, just as shocked to find someone else in what he’d thought of as his space. The two boys stare at each other, and Harry’s hand drops from the wall. He couldn’t help but think that the other boy looks ethereal in the glow of the moon. 

“Er. Sorry.” Harry says into the awkward silence, backing up slowly. Malfoy has also backed up, his arms coming to wrap around his middle defensively. He looked thin. His mouth was drawn in a thin line.

Malfoy doesn’t say anything, just continues to watch Harry skittishly, his eyes darting around the room. Harry has the feeling that if there had been more than one way into the classroom, Malfoy would already have bolted away, but Harry was standing in front of the only door. 

Malfoy blinks rapidly, and Harry decides to leave him be. So he turned and left, glancing one last time over his shoulder at the other boy, who stands still against the wall. 

Harry walks quickly away and down the hallway, making random turns until he found himself in front of his Charms classroom, a good distance away from Malfoy. He sits in a window alcove, his mind buzzing with his recent encounter. 

Harry had known he was bi for a while now. He’d figured it out after he and Ginny had gone their separate ways, and he’d realized that he found boys as attractive as girls. 

And with this newfound knowledge came the extremely weird fact that other blokes that he’d known for so long were attractive to him. One of those, he was slightly ashamed to admit, was Malfoy, and Harry had been indulging in a bit of staring every now and then. 

It wasn’t just the looks that drew Harry in, though, although he admitted to himself that was a part of it. Malfoy was- intriguing. He was drastically different from the Malfoy Harry thought he had known, with the snark and the prejudice and attention seeking. 

For one thing, he was always scribbling away in a little notebook in the library, but it didn’t appear to be for school. Harry had watched from nearby once as he’d steadily filled up a page with his neat cursive before leaving the library with it, and Harry had itched with curiosity. 

He was always fiddling with his quill or tapping his fingers on desks, but purposefully, like he was playing a piano. Harry sometimes saw him do this with his eyes closed, like there was music playing that only he could hear. 

He was also exceedingly quiet and withdrawn, barely participating in classes. He always seemed to do well in them, though. He was adept at every class. Harry rarely saw him in the Great Hall at mealtimes, even when all the other eighth year Slytherins were there. The only person Malfoy seemed to speak to was Blaise Zabini.

Another thing that piqued his interest was the sight of a _muggle_ book he’d seen in Malfoy’s school bag. _Little Women_ It was just so ironic, so weird, and Harry had chuckled under his breath when he’d seen it. It was the last thing he’d expected Malfoy to be reading. 

And now walking in on him doing the same thing Harry was, hiding away in a forgotten corner of the school at night. He was just so different than before, and Harry wanted to see it up close. See how he’d changed. 

So many little quirks and things he’d noticed and filed away about Malfoy. Harry kind of wanted to get to know him. Meet who he thought of as Draco, not Malfoy. In his mind they were almost separate people. 

Harry sighs and leaned his head against the cool stone. He’s been trying not to think of Malfoy, but the more he forces himself not to, the more he does. He couldn’t help it. He knew it was probably a bad idea…

But he let himself succumb to the thoughts of him anyway. 

The next day Harry goes to Transfiguration, accompanied by Ron, who’s deep in a monologue on this year’s Quidditch Cup. 

“...and the Holyhead Harpies, Gwenog Jones, they’re favorites for the Cup, mate, they’ve won every match. Last week they won two hundred and sixty to fifty against…” 

But Ron’s words become a meaningless buzz in Harry’s ears when he sees Malfoy walk past them into the classroom, his eyes meeting Harry’s for the briefest of moments. Harry’s breath hitches and his heart began beating furiously, and Malfoy’s gaze flickers away. 

“..Harry?” 

Harry looks back at Ron, who raised an eyebrow and tilts his head towards their normal desk, where they sit near Ernie and Terry. Harry nods, casting one more glance at Malfoy, who’s sitting by himself, head bent over a book. Part of him wants to damn it all and go take the vacant seat next to the Slytherin, but his feet are already following Ron to their normal desk as class begins. 

Harry doesn’t see Malfoy again until two days after Transfiguration class, when he enters the library with Hermione to fetch books for their Charms essay. His eyes perform the now-familiar search of a room, and when he spotted the distant blond head tucked away in a corner between the bookstacks, it’s only too easy to make an excuse to Hermione and slowly walk over to him. 

Harry hesitates before resting a hand on the chair opposite Malfoy at the small table, the slight noise making the other boy raise his head. Harry blinks.

“Can I sit here?” he asks. Malfoy’s eyes are unreadable. There’s an awkward pause before Malfoy nodded, the movement small and quick. Harry releases a quiet breath and drew out the chair before beginning to work on his essay, pretending like he wasn’t distracted by Malfoy opposite him. 

He writes a few meandering lines, pausing to consider a passage of his textbook, chancing small glances across the table. Malfoy’s still writing steadily, and Harry recognized the Potions essay that was due next week. There were dots of black ink splattered on Malfoy’s thin fingers, and Harry wondered at that fact when everything around Malfoy was so neat and cleanly organized. 

Malfoy clears his throat softly, and Harry looks up from his study of Malfoy’s hands to meet the other boy’s gaze, reddening slightly at being caught. The blond has a barely-there smile on his face when they lock eyes again.

“You have ink on your hands,” Harry says rather pointlessly, grasping for something to say. Malfoy glances down at his hands before looking up again.

“Yeah,” he replies slowly, his eyes appraising Harry. There’s another silence. Malfoy sets down his elegant quill and leans back, his fingers tapping on the table. “Why have you been watching me, Potter?” he asks, and Harry feels his cheeks warm.

“Er…” he says. It was excruciating to sit there under the blond’s curious gaze, and Harry has never been good at excuses. And apparently he wasn’t as inconspicuous as he’d thought when he would watch Malfoy in class, or the hallways. Bloody brilliant. “Have I?” he replies weakly, fidgeting with the edge of his parchment. Malfoy tilts his head slightly and Harry knows he sees right through Harry’s attempt at playing dumb. 

“You’ve been watching me in class ever since that night you wandered into the room I was in.” Malfoy says, and Harry thinks he hears a note of amusement in his voice. 

“Sorry about bothering you that night.” Harry replies, and Malfoy shakes his head slightly. 

“You just surprised me then,” he says, and Harry feels a little pang of relief. But Malfoy’s still waiting on Harry’s explanation. 

I guess I was just curious as to why you wander the school at night,” Harry fibs. 

“Why do you?” 

“Why do I what?”

“Wander the school at night.” 

Harry found himself imitating Malfoy, tapping his fingers on the table. He stops hastily when the other boy’s eyes flick to his hand. 

“Can’t sleep. Or I don’t feel like sleeping.” Harry replies, and Malfoy quirked an eyebrow before standing up gracefully. The table before him was clear of all of his things. Harry hadn’t noticed him cleaning up to leave.

“Me too,” Malfoy says quietly, before walking away and out of the library. Harry stares after him until he disappeared from view. He slumps back in his seat with a sigh. Well, that hadn’t gone _entirely_ to plan, but it hadn’t been horrible. 

So much for his Gryffindor bravery. More like bravado. 

But Malfoy hadn’t seemed....hostile. Not unfriendly. If anything he’d found Harry amusing. Or rather, Harry’s flushing and stammering and awkwardness had been laughable to him. Harry groaned and closed his eyes briefly. He was so bad at these things. 

Five hours later he was in the Gryffindor common room with Hermione, Ron, and Dean, as eighth years still had access to their respective house common rooms, even though their dorms were no longer nearby. Harry was thinking about Malfoy, Hermione was reading a newspaper, and the other two boys were engaged in a loud game of wizards chess. (Hermione had scolded Ron thoroughly for swearing colorfully in front of a group of second years when Dean had taken both his rooks) 

“Have you been sleeping, Harry?” Hermione asks quietly, and he glances at her, giving her a quick smile. 

“Yes, I have. Stop worrying about me, ‘Mione. I’m alright.” She eyes him for a few seconds before returning to her paper, and Harry stands, suddenly unsatisfied with sitting and watching Ron and Dean play chess. “I’m going to go back to my dorm,” Harry tells Hermione, and waves to Ron before walking out of the Gryffindor common room. 

He made his way to the third floor corridor, cautiously peeking into the room where he’d found Malfoy previously, but it was empty. Figured. 

Not knowing where else Malfoy would be, Harry resumes his wandering, trailing his hand along the stone wall, his fingers tracing every dip and imperfection. Some time later (Harry had foregone wearing Fabian Prewett’s gold watch that night, as he preferred to not know the time) Harry strolls into the courtyard and sits on the bench near the quietly babbling fountain, facing the memorial monument. Even in the shadowy lighting from the crescent moon half-covered by wispy clouds, Harry could still make out a few names. _Dobby. Colin Creevey. Nymphadora Tonks. Albus Dumbledore. Severus Snape._

“I thought you might be out here somewhere.” 

Harry looks over at Malfoy in surprise. The other boy was leaning against the corner of the fountain, only a few feet from him. The shadows play over his face, enunciating the hollow of his throat, his cheekbones. Harry swallows and tries to keep his voice steady when he responds.

“Why’s that?” 

Malfoy shrugs, the motion smooth and fluid. His fingers were tapping on his thigh. 

“Do you play piano?” Harry asks suddenly. Malfoy frowns slightly. 

“I used to. Why?” 

“You always tap your fingers on something. Like you’re playing.” Harry explains, and the ghost of a smile flits across Malfoy’s face. 

“Didn’t know you payed attention to that.” he replies, almost teasing but not quite. It hadn’t escaped Harry’s notice that Malfoy was actually, _willingly_ talking around him, or that he’d gone looking for Harry tonight, like Harry had gone looking for him. 

Harry offers him a small smile, feeling a nervous fluttering in his stomach. Malfoy looks at him a second longer before walking past him, leaving the courtyard. Harry gets the sense it would be alright if he followed. So he does. 

Malfoy made his way down to the edge of the Black Lake, and Harry stands next to him, the water lapping at the toes of his shoes. The night sky was reflected in the water, countless glistening and ever-changing fragments coloring the lake in shades of silver and shadow. They stay like that in silence. Harry glances over at Malfoy. His head was tilted back, watching the night sky. 

“I come down here a lot at night,” he says, and something in his tone is more open, less guarded. Like Harry passed a test when he made the choice to follow him down to the lake.

“It’s really nice.” Harry replies, filled with the sudden urge to intertwine Malfoy’s fingers with his own. Hold them tight and never let go. 

Malfoy’s eyes slide to his and there’s a faint smirk on his face. 

“Always so articulate, Potter,” he responds, his eyes a little brighter, and Harry grins.

“What are you always writing in that notebook of yours?” he asks, hoping he’s not overstepping. Malfoy opens his mouth slightly before closing it again. His expression reminds Harry of when they’d first encountered one another at night. Surprised, maybe a little scared. But as soon as he notices this, it melts away and Malfoy looks calmer.

“See for yourself.” he says, and hands Harry the small notebook that he’d been so curious about. Harry glances at him curiously before flipping to a random page. There’s poetry. Another page. A small but detailed sketch of the castle, another of the courtyard. And on the next page, two words written over and over. _I’m sorry._

Harry closes it, not wanting to nose any more. He hands it back. 

“I like the sketches.” he says, feeling slightly ashamed to have prodded so much. But Malfoy doesn’t seem to mind.

“Not the poems?” he replies with a small smile. The sight of a real smile on Malfoy’s face is surprising to Harry, but he likes it.

“Those too.” he responds. They head back up to the castle. 

The next night Harry goes down to the courtyard again, and Malfoy’s already there. 

Days were irrelevant now, and everything he remembered that was washed in sunlight melded together into a blur. It was the nights that he held close, the nights spent with Draco- for he _was_ Draco now- under the midnight sky. 

They talked about everything. Trivial things, even the war. Childhoods. Favorite things. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all. But every time they stood a little closer together. Every time it was harder for Harry to drag his eyes away from Draco. 

Hermione and Ron have asked more than once why he never slept, why he never even went up to his dorm in the evenings. Where he disappeared to. But he doesn’t tell them, not yet. He wants to have this one thing for himself. Wants the quiet starlight and the crunch of pebbles under two pairs of feet and grey eyes meeting green under the moon to himself. 

It was drizzling lightly when he stepped out into the courtyard that night. The moon was split exactly in half, one dark side, one white side. Soft footsteps come from behind him and then Draco’s next to him. By silent agreement they head to the lake, Harry touching his fingers to the stone of the memorial as they go by. 

“What are you going to do? After?” Draco asks. 

“Dunno.” Harry says. Now that it was April, the eighth years were abuzz with plans and chatter on what they would do after they graduated. “I used to want to be an Auror. But not anymore. You?”

“Dunno,” Draco replies, and Harry hides a smile but he knows Draco’s eyes caught it anyway. Draco always spoke so eloquently. Whenever he used words like “dunno” Harry knew Draco was teasing him. 

“How’s your mum?” Harry asks as they reached the lake and stopped walking. 

“Alright. She sold the house. Moved in with her sister. Wants me to come with her sometime to visit my father.” Draco responds, staring out across the water. It was relatively choppy tonight, stirred into motion by the spring breeze blowing at their backs. 

“Will you?” 

“No.” 

Draco’s fingers brush against Harry’s. His breath catches.

“What am I going to do?” Draco murmurs, still looking into the distance. “I don’t have a future after this. It’s not possible.” 

Harry turns his head to look at him, and Draco glances over, meeting his eyes.

“You can have a future if you want,” Harry says. _Do you feel it too?_ He wants to say so much more but refrains. A wry smile tugs at Draco’s lips. 

“You’re very optimistic.” His fingers brush Harry’s again, and now he knows he’s not imagining it. 

Harry takes a deep breath, slides his hand into Draco’s. The other boy’s hand tightens momentarily around his.

“I guess it’s my Gryffindor optimism.” Harry says. Draco’s thumb brushes over his hand.

“I guess so,” he replies. And when their lips meet it’s everything Harry’s ever dreamed of.


End file.
